With a Knife to the Side
by Posher10
Summary: Amrod escapes Angband. And it sends ripples through all of Arda. AU ending of 'Fated Son', one of the stories that are part of the Tales of the Foxchildren. It is written by Kay of Arda (This story itself is part of AU of the Foxchildren.) Rated T for... a lot of things. Mostly feels and torture and mentions of torture and... actually, this is better off M.
1. Chapter 1

Do not own Silmarillion.

His mouth tasted like blood sneaking down his throat and hardened resolve sinking into his skin. The stone was cold along the ridges of his taut shoulders. His muscles were tight, so much so that he was shaking, and were visible through his skin.

"You test my patience, Umbarto."

"Isn't that what I always do?" he hissed out through the pulsing pain of the blood trickling down from the shallow wound on his side.

"Yes." It was said in such annoyance that the elf couldn't help but smirk. "Sometimes I wonder if the wrong son of Fëanor was left on those ships." His breath caught. What did that mean? "I wonder if Amras was the one asleep if he had been abandoned on the first ship, to burn and die a horrible death, condemned by his own father… I wonder if your little brother would have screamed for me."

That was a line Raiqifëa wasn't allowed to cross. Amrod could weather the pain and taunts in silence; he could bear to hear his mother-name on his torturer's breath; he could even accept the quiet version of his brother-in-law, the soft, pained one, that he hid beneath his armor and his façade, that came out in times when he felt most vulnerable. But the moment he mentioned his brothers… the moment he threatened them… that was when something in Fëanor's son broken.

The cuff clinked against its links as his hand flew forward, fingers barred in a menacing way. And then he felt his captor's skin on his palm, and his head snap back.

There was a small cut on Raiqifëa's cheek, whether from the chain or one of his nails—one of the nails that hadn't been torn from his fingers—he didn't know.

But Sauron's son lifted a hand to his face, and gently looked at the drop of blood collected on his palm.

He laughed, "Even chained to the wall and bleeding and in pain and anger and fear, you are still every bit as _feral_ as your father and the rest of his oath-cursed sons." Amrod snarled, but his torturer was out of his reach.

"Do not speak of them."

"You're right; we shouldn't speak ill of the dead." His breath sputtered out from his lungs.

"…what…" His torturer tilted his head to the side.

"You didn't hear? Amras is dead, Umbarto. Your brother's blood lies spilled with an arrow to his side. They say that the _Ambarussa_ were the youngest of Fëanor's sons, and they were the first to fall. Your brothers have abandoned you, Umbarto."

"No," he hissed through his clenched teeth, "They just think me dead." Raiqifëa threw back his head and laughed.

"Is that what you like to believe? Then why did they not check the ship you were sleeping in? Why did they not search for your body among the wreckage or the waves? Face it, _Amrod_ , your brothers care naught for you. They have left you for dead."

"That's not true…" he whispered pitifully, "they wouldn't…"

"Oh, but they would, Umbarto. And, unlike your little _hanno_ , no one will be here to avenge you." He saw the dagger in his side before he felt it. And, when he gasped, it was more from the suddenness of the pain than the intensity of it.

That was when he realized he couldn't breathe. There was a quickness, a shortness, each intake of air different and more stifled from the last.

"Why, I do believe I've pierced your lung." He felt Raiqifëa's form loom over him. "I have. And you know better than to remove that knife, lest the blood fill your lungs." He turned to go. "Don't worry. I'll send for my sister… when I see her next."

And then his tormentor was gone.

But Amrod had seen in Raiqifëa's eyes that he was absolutely terrified. Their relationship was like a sibling rivalry gone wrong and blown completely out of proportion. His quest to make him scream was more like a game to them than anything, a quest to see who would break first. But, he did truly care for Fëanor's son; you could tell in certain moments. Like how when he discovered—completely on accident—that Amrod and Míryaruinë were married. He had been truly joyful. Or, when he had to come to his brother-in-law, twice in the past, divested of his armor and dressed in a loose tunic instead, and they simply spoke. Of pain. Of heartbreak. Of loneliness and fear. In those moments, Amrod could see Raiqifëa's soul, fighting to break free. And he prayed to Eru that his brother-in-law would find solace from his torment. That he would one day realize that the name Aratanárë fit him better now than Raiqifëa ever would.

And, with that in mind, Fëanor's son knew that as soon as Sauron's son had closed the door, he had gone running through the shadows of his cursed home to find his sister, not just 'when he saw her next'. He had seen the genuine fear in his eyes. But Amrod also knew that Míryaruinë was unlikely to get here before his lungs filled with blood and he drowned on dry land.

His hand shook, unable to be steadied, the fingers of his left limb refused to curl around the handle. His breath was fast, not only because of his lungs but because he was bracing like a dog would before a blow. And then his knuckles tightened around the leather grip and the steel came loose from his flesh with a quick tug that ended with a sickening squelch.

It clattered to the floor, slipping from his blood-slicked, limb fingers. The stab oozed red and his breath caught when he saw it. The liquid spilled out to the floor and he watched almost hypnotically, mesmerized. But then he roughly shook his head, and inspected the wound again, this time with a healer's eye, one that had been perfected in Angband.

It had only barely pierced the fringes of his lung and would probably heal by itself—the real problem was making sure he didn't bleed out until then. His mind froze with a single realization. He was going to have to do one of two things—cauterize it or stitch it. Considering he didn't have an open flame the first option was impossible. He also didn't have a needle—Amrod's eyes happened to glance at the shimmer of the blade, glistening with blood. At the thinness of it, the almost… unnatural slenderness. The way he could easily break off the tip with a few well-placed pounds of a rock.

His mind recoiled from the thought but then… what else was he to do? He was going to die in about two minutes, two-and-a-half at most. The chance of Raiqifëa finding and bringing Míryaruinë to him with enough time to let her help? The chance of that happening was slim. Very slim.

So his hand trembled its way to grip the blade once more, lay it down between his knee and a stone beside it, and lift a shaking rock. And then bring it down. Again and again and again. Until he felt the steel splinter. And then crack. And then _break._

The two pieces feel cleanly into his palm, the shards of glass-like metal scattering on the floor. The blade was even still pointed on the end, though it had two edges now, instead of just one. But what he was really looking at was the tip. It was wide, enough to make him nervous, but his other option was death. And he had come too far to die now.

He pulled with shaking fingers at the frayed threads of his sleeves, watching them unravel, and shivering as his skin was exposed to the cold air. Then he twined that around the steel point. He stared at it for a moment, before forcing himself to look down at his torso and level the sharp metal to his skin. He took a breath, the heaviness in his lungs reminding him why he had to do this and stabbed it into his skin. His eyes squinted; his breath caught, stuttering, but he moved his fingers through his flesh, positioning the steel so that it weaved a line through his skin. He looped it over the wound, then back into himself, hissing. It was a small injury, only three stitches needed, and, when he was finished, he let his blood-stained fingers fall to the floor, the tip dangling from the thread. His breath evened, and he gave a soft sigh of relief. He was no longer bleeding, and the hole in his lung was tiny enough that it would close on its own. He was going to live.

But then he glanced at the blade, the blade still sporting a jagged sharpness all around. And an idea burned in his mind. He was in pain, yes, in utter agony, and he was covered in his own blood. But, then again, when was he not? And was he ever going to get a second chance?

His hand scooped the dagger from the floor, pricking his fingers on the shards of metal all around it.

His legs lifted themselves painfully from the ground, the soles of his feet digging into the stone with a sharp intensity.

And his gaze held the handle of the door, the way it wasn't locked or bolted, the way that Raiqifëa had left it cracked in his hurry.

Amrod took a step forward, his weight feeling alien on his hips. He stumbled to the threshold and then glanced into the hall. It was—thank the Valar—empty. He breathed out a sigh and forced his gait to steady. His eyes flashed.

If he was going to get out of here, it wasn't going to be by limping.

Amrod had no idea how to navigate Angband, not the first clue. His entire sense of direction in that dark hell was simple: hear something, go the other way. He thought that perhaps Eru was finally smiling down at him for, after about an hour, he opened a door and burst unto the bottom of one of the spires.

The sun was shining down on his head.

And, oh Valar, the sun, it was gorgeous, perfectly placed.

Until the light truly sunk in and he recoiled, like one of the orcs, from its sheer brightness.

It was then that he noticed the pale color of his skin.

It was then that he realized his eyes must have been a milky white for all his time in darkness.

It was also then that he realized there were weathered stone steps leading down the tower and… out of the tower. He leaned over the edge and checked. _Yes_. He grinned from the absurdity of it. An unguarded exit out of Angband was right at his feet. And then he turned his gaze up, lifting a hand to block the light, and saw, beyond the wall… tents.

Waving the banner of Finwë and Fëanor from their flag posts.

Tears came to his eyes and, this time, it had nothing to do with the sun.

Fëanor.

His brothers were here.

His feet stumbled down the stone, unable to resume the steadiness they'd held earlier. He knew that there was a siege going on. No one had told him that it contained his brothers. Or any of his family, really. He never thought he was going to be able to just walk out and see his six—five brothers again. _Five._ He reminded himself sadly. Five, because Amras was gone. He slipped through a hole in the wall and gazed with sorrow at the dead bodies that lined the field of Angband's foreground. _So much death._ The corpses were strewn over the burned grass, so similar to the Teleri that Alqualondë appeared in his head, and he flinched.

"May you find peace in Mandos Halls, my kin," he murmured to the wind, unsure if he was speaking to the dead Noldor in front of him, or the fallen Teleri, cut down in the city, so long ago.

Thankfully, the camp was not far, for he believed that, unsurprisingly, one of his haphazardly made and rushed stitches had torn, if the blood trickling down his torso was any indication.

A battle seemed to have been fought recently if the bodies and the screams and the dashing of healers was any indication. But that meant that he could slip through unnoticed, covered in blood though he was, for he could walk on his own and had no visible wounds. No one even glanced twice at him, despite the blood-hue of his hair _. They probably thought it was stained,_ herealized _, from either my own or my brethren's._

The camp, when he reached it, was in an uproar, everyone had somewhere to go and someone to tend to. But he had his sights set on one place in particular.

The tent at the top of a large hill, near the middle of thelaager, that bore the standard of Fëanor at its top. The leader's tent. And where he knew he would find his brothers.

"My lord!" A healer gasped from beside him and he faltered when he realized that she was talking to him. It had been _so long_ since he had been called that title in a sincere tone of voice, one that wasn't just trying to mock him or bring about memories of his old life that he didn't know how to respond. "You're brothers worried for you, my lord." He paused, stricken. They were… _worried_ about him? Then why didn't they come to find him? And why was this maiden taking it in such stride? "They were afraid that you had fallen." He gave a thin grin. They had thought he was dead. But then it fell. No, they were _afraid_ that he was dead. That meant they knew he was alive and had done nothing. "They're waiting for you in the main tent." Amrod knew that, but he still nodded gratefully and limped along.

The healer, on the other hand, turned the corner and went a bit further before running into someone.

"My apologies, my lord—" she hurriedly began, brushing the dust off herself before she looked and… met the face of the person she had just talked to?

"It's alright, my lady." Amras smiled at her, "Is my horse in the stables?" She nodded dumbly and he thanked her with a gesture before setting off. She just blinked.

… _How?_

But Amrod, on the other side of the camp, was frozen in fear. He stood, rooted to the ground like a statue. He could barely breathe. The sons of Fëanor were behind this thin wall of cloth, behind this tiny border. Just a slip of fabric to separate him from his family that he hadn't seen in over a hundred years. It seemed unreal. It seemed _impossible_. And yet… here he was. The guards on either side were staring at the motionless elf as though he were insane, but he was in too much ecstasy—and pain— to care. It sunk in.

He was _free._

And he was about to see his brothers.

But only if he would this courage—and the strength—to brush this aside and take a step inside and they would see him. He bit his bottom lip. _Did_ he have the drive to face them? Could he bear to see the masked horror on their faces from his scars or his hand and the absolute disgust in their eyes?

Amrod's gaze hardened. But how could he not? With everything he had been through, with the record he held, with the way that he had bit his tongue and refused to give this smallest whimper or the weakest scream, could he back down _now_? How could he face himself, knowing that it hadn't been torture nor darkness nor starvation that broke him, but his own unjustified fears?

He took a breath, let it cling to his lungs and felt the cold air shiver down his spine before he lifted up his head and took a staggering step inside, the curtain washing over him.

Light glowed from a lamp like the sun outside, and he flinched slightly as the flame flickered. Amrod forced himself to breathe. To look up.

To meet their eyes.

Maitimo, whose name no longer fit his form, was leaning over a table, long ruby hair a waterfall down his scarred back.

Makalaurë had his boots kicked up one of the other chairs as he leaned back in another, idly fiddling with his harp strings to a tuneless melody.

Tyelkormo was sharpening one of his silver daggers, fingers stained with black orcish blood and boots slick with mud.

Carnistir was beside Maitimo at the map, his fingers clicking along the rim of the table.

Curufinwë, his face pulled down in his ever-permanent scowl, was ramrod straight with his arms crossed behind his back, staring into nothing.

Amras, of course, was not there, for he was gone.

They barely glanced at him as he entered the room. Only Tyelkormo did, and it was for no more than an instant.

"Oh, great, you're alive," he remarked with his famous cynicism. The words stung into Amrod with their careless tone. _They really don't care…_ He thought mournfully.

"Maitimo…" he barely choked out, hoping that his ever-present, ever-caring brother would at least give him a word of joy. Could they not see that he had missed them? Were they so blind to his pain?

But that name did more than get the attention of Fëanor's first son. Everyone lurched to stare at him, and Makalaurë even sent him a glare.

"What did you just call me?" his brother growled, and he faltered.

"…Maitimo?"

"You would dare—" His breath caught as his eyes landed on the scars on Amrod's face, the scars that never adorned Amras'. And they were healed over, too old to be from the battle that just ended. He stared for just a moment, and Amrod gave a hesitant smile. "Amrod?" he murmured out in shock, in disbelief.

Makalaurë shot to his feet, the harp tumbling from his fingers and to the ground.

"What?" he choked out.

A splash of blood slipped down his leg and onto the floor. They stared at it.

"Amrod…" Maitimo graced a hand over his cheek and he leaned into the touch.

Then he fainted.

Tell me what you think, please!


	2. Chapter 2

"…How?..." Fëanor's oldest son stared at the second youngest, now limp at his feet.

"Better question," Celegorm began, setting down the dagger, his eyes glinting with purpose, "whose blood is that? And does he need a healer?" Maedhros fell to his knees beside Amrod's motionless form and turned his brother over, rearranging the tattered remains of his shirt.

"Here…" He fingered the stitched wound. "It's been torn, and now it's bleeding. There's… a _waterfall_ of red from it." Caranthir was on his feet in a moment, and then he was gone through the tent flap.

"Do you have a cot in here?" Celegorm asked quietly, "we should probably get him of the… dirt." Maedhros nodded quickly.

"Over by the desk, between it and the wall," he replied in the same tone. The third son nodded and retrieved the object, helping the first raise the sixth onto it. He twirled a strand of the blood-stained, blood-hued hair.

"How… how is this possible. Amrod… has been dead for centuries. Maedhros, what's going on?" Celegorm's always harsh eyes were pleading and they tore into his _fëa_ , so much so that he wished he could answer, but at that moment, a healer, one he didn't know, but she was one if the blue circlet and sash were anything to go by. She stared with horror at the blood that covered their floor, and then her eyes trailed to Amrod's unconscious body.

"How is he not dead?" she asked in a mixture of shock and fear and a strange tint of laughter.

"Just look him over, please?" Maedhros asked in a low beg. She bowed quickly and went to his side, pulling his 'shirt' over his shoulders and folding it onto the floor.

They stared at him with something so outlandish, so rare, that it did not have a name in any language known to the Valar or men or elves. His body was a cacophony of scars and burns, layered over each other. If you'd asked, Maedhros wasn't sure he could find an inch of untouched skin. And those scars that stood in the place of his flesh were drenched in blood, spilling out onto the fabric of the mattress.

But the real horror came from when their eyes traced down his right arm, and then realized that it ended at his wrist. No palm grew from that stump; no fingers twitched or spasmed in sleep. Maedhros unconsciously squeezed the stump at the end of his own arm in disbelief.

"Look here," the healer gently pressed a small area near his chest. It was only then that they noticed the thread, twined through his scars and the skin beneath them to close a wound, was over his lungs. A piece of metal glittered from the end of the string, uncut, and when the healer lifted it, they saw, with bile rising in their throats, that it was the end of a blade. She restitched the still bleeding slice, then turned to them. "Would you like an inventory?" the healer asked quietly, and Maedhros nodded eagerly. She sighed, then pried the blade from his lifeless fingers. Flipping it, she pointed it to the air and slid the tip back into place.

"He sewed himself up using the end of the dagger he used to escape?" Maglor asked in horror, and she nodded.

"But that's not all." She laid it level with the wound, and the two pieces were the same width, the same length.

"He sewed himself up using the end of the dagger that stabbed him?" Fëanor's second son reprashed, and she nodded again, dropping the parts onto his folded shirt.

"He's covered in a symphony of torture and pain. Acid burns are evident along the ridges of his shoulders and look here." She tracked a hand down the left side of his torso, near his armpit. "There's a burn in the shape of a hand." The healer paused, "And, speaking of hands, his wasn't cut off."

"Uh, pardon me," Maedhros interrupted, "then where is it?"

"I said it hadn't been cut off; I didn't say that it hadn't been _removed_." They stared at her for a moment, before a sickened understanding dawned in their eyes, and their faces blanched.

"Then how was it… 'removed'?" Maglor was almost afraid to ask. The healer suddenly looked very timid, and hesitantly answered,

"I don't know for certain, but, in my opinion… I would say burned." They looked at her, uncomprehending.

"What do you mean?" She trailed a hand along the stump.

"This was not a clean slash like yours, my lord." Maedhros flinched but said nothing. "This looks slow, agonizing. These are burns and while I don't know how he lost his hand, I would say that this collection of marks left by fire is in a such an order, that it is impossible not to be related."

"What about… the rest?" Her fingers turned, moved back up the scars of his arm to his neck.

"Did he speak to you?" she asked frantically, her eyes wide. Maedhros nodded.

"He sounded normal; why?" She sighed in relief.

"This looks like it cut through his vocal cords."

"You mean… he could have been mute?" Maglor's face was white, and she nodded.

"Thankfully, it seems to have either missed them or been treated." Leaning in closer, she made a noise of discovery. "It's been treated. I can see the small scars from a needle-and-thread. You're lucky that your brother must have been paying attention to your medical classes, otherwise, he would look much worse."

"…What do you mean?" Celegorm's unwavering form was suddenly whispering those questioning words with a tone of doubt.

"He and Maedhros look the same. My lord, you were there for thirty years. Your brother was—apparently—held captive for over a century. Yet, you have about the same about of scars. Did you not think that was strange? It's because he's treated them." She paused. "Most of them. He must have remembered how to do so, but I doubt that he always had the supplies." They glanced at each other then nodded. The explanation made sense. But then Maglor and Maedhros paled as they realized the same thing at the same moment.

"You had to be an adult to attend medical classes," Fëanor's second son said, "The Ambarussa left years before they came of age. He wouldn't know how to treat wounds."

"Well, someone clearly did," the maiden told them, "and I sincerely doubt that it was Morgoth. And, if it wasn't him, who did?"

"That… is an excellent question." The voice was so quiet, so feather-light like it was afraid its very existence was a crime. And it was Amrod's mouth that was moving; his eyes that flickered open. "However, I'm trying to sleep, so," he waved a hand in the air dismissively, "shoo." They stared at him. "I don't hear anyone moving." Maedhros' hand caught Amrod's, and he slid into a chair that someone—probably Maglor, knowing him—had placed there.

"Little brother?" he murmured, tracing a slow circle on the wrist of Fëanor's sixth son with his thumb.

"Hm?" _Amrod_ _won't_ _even_ _look_ _at_ _me_ , he noticed with heartbreak.

"Are you… alright?" He was well aware of how stupid that question sounded, and all of his brothers—minus Amrod and Amras—were staring at him as if he were insane. He, of all of them, should know how to handle this. The thing was, Maedhros would have killed for someone to ask that question to him after he had been rescued from Thangorodrim because it was so open-ended. He could tell someone if one of his wounds hurt, but also if he was lonely and he just wanted his brother to sit next to him for one _Voided minute._ But he was too proud to ask that, not unless if it was an answer to a question. If Amrod wanted to speak, he could, and freely, without having to worry about that Eru-Voided pride. And, he did.

But not with the answer any of them suspected.

"Why do you care," he muttered resentfully into the pillow. Maedhros was shocked. What did he mean? Did he think that he didn't care? He was his brother! He had watched him grow; he had seen him gain wisdom! He had mourned him— _twice!_ Did he _really_ think that he didn't love him? Maedhros' grip tightened, almost unnoticeable, but Amrod still winced from the touch.

" _Hanno_ …" he whispered sorrowfully.

" _Don't_ , call me that," Fëanor's sixth son spit out. His firstborn paused, unsure how to continue. Yes, he had rejected the name 'Maitimo' when he had first returned, but that was a _name,_ not a word. Why would Amrod hate the word that he had loved all his childhood without obvious reason?

"Brother," he began again, hesitating, and, when his younger sibling didn't reply, continued, "how… _how are you alive_?"

"The Dark Foe draws near…" he mumbled in response, "let his presence fill you with fear… under cold stone were all unholy things creep… in Angband, where even his servants, in terror, weep…" The brothers, suddenly cold, glanced at each other with faces drained of blood. _What?!_ They ran the words over in their minds, not understanding how they fit together, at least, not in that order. That… couldn't be right. _Angband? With Morgoth? Our little brother?_

They had already lost one light to Moriñgotto, to the dark clutches of his fortress aptly named 'Iron Hell'. For, though Maedhros returned, he was but a jaded version of himself, and the joy that had always shimmered in his eyes, especially when he looked at his brothers, was gone. But he was their older sibling. He had been an adult by the time any of them were born. To think that the little boy raised in Valinor, the one they once knew, had been lost in the same way, to the same black horror, was unthinkable. And yet…

The gaze of Fëanor's first son was unbearably sad, and yet also joyful. The seven were together again, no matter how twisted the way it had come to pass was.

"Sleep, little brother," he rubbed a hand down Amrod's arm, "sleep, little brother, and let no dreams or nightmares disturb you." He murmured a reply, but it was too quick and quiet to understand.

"You know, I was thinking that—" Amras' voice came through the tent, his speech lined, as always, with the odd mixture of laughter and choked-up sadness. Yet, seeing his brothers, collected around a cot, tears in all their eyes—and healer stained with blood beside them and all over the ground—he faltered. "Brother, what's going on?" His voice was agonizingly soft, and his gaze stole over each of his brothers in turn, searching. He was _terrified_ to lose another sibling since the death of Amrod, the loss of his other half. It had left him afraid to find that another of his brothers was gone, and the capture of Maedhros—or, as he was called in those days, Maitimo—had hit him even harder than Maglor, who was faced with the torturous decision of not agreeing to the trade. His eyes held nothing but fear, for who but one of Fëanor's sons would be treated here?

He paused when he reached the end of the line, confused, and scanned back over them. They were… all here. "Maedhros… whose in the cot?" The firstborn paused, biting his bottom lip.

"Amras, _nityaer,"_ The elf's face grew even more afraid from his tone, and his hands began to tremble, "you might want to sit down. What I—"

"Amrod's alive," Celegorm said bluntly, leaning back against the post, one leg kicked up and arms crossed over his chest. Amras just stared at him. Then his expression turned angry, a knife appeared in his outstretched hand.

" _Don't,_ joke about that."

"Amras, _nityaer_ ," Maedhros said again, "I almost wish we were." Amras' face flashed a million different emotions, the knife tumbling from his limb fingers to the blood-tinted dirt.

"You.. you're not joking?" He looked frantic, glancing from one of their faces to the next, never lingering long. The firstborn walked over to him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Look at him, _nityaer_ ," he murmured, "and tell me we are." Amras was shaking, his hands clenched tight at his sides and his lips were trembling. His head was tilted to the ground; his eyes running wildly back and forth, never focusing. His twin couldn't be here, because his twin was _dead_. Amrod was _dead_. He'd spent years convincing himself of that; it couldn't be a lie! Not when he'd moved on! …As much as he would ever be able to from the elf that was his other half.

But… there he was. Blood-stained, scar-covered, hair a matted, muddy mess down his back—and alive. He was alive. Breath was drawn through his lips like a stuttered wind, filling his lungs, a sinking ship going further down.

Amras' knees buckled beneath him, and Maedhros just barely caught him before he hit the ground. His breath was shallow and, though his eyes were open, they were unseeing. He could hardly breathe, and each pithy gasp of air was a challenge to suck through his teeth and enter his lungs.

His mind couldn't wrap itself around this, this… _impossibility_.

And he didn't have much time to do so.

For the tent flap shot up and in walked, as though he belonged, a cloaked being draped with black and the darkest greys, hood drawn down to his forehead. The only feature they could distinguish were his beady golden eyes, staring out at them. He didn't move, didn't flinch when Celegorm's hand immediately flew to the knife eternally strapped to his belt.

" _Glórin_ _Dúlin,_ " Maedhros greeted with only the slightest hint of surprise, "our meeting wasn't scheduled until tomorrow." The eyes of the third son of Fëanor flicked to his brother for a moment.

" _Muindor_ , do you know this elf?"

"Yes," As they spoke, he gave a soft bow, cloak slipping around his shoulders, "this is one of our spies, _Glórin_ _Dúlin,_ the Golden Nightingale. One of the leaders of our ring." The brothers glanced at each other, then relaxed. Slightly.

"I have to tell you something, _Gallinacciu._ " The word fell from his lips so easily, though it wasn't from any language they could claim to begin to recognize. But Maedhros nodded in response yet didn't move. _Glórin Dúlin_ glanced between them uneasily, and the eldest raised his eyebrow in simple anticipation. He rolled his shoulders, sighing. "It's about Nalláma." Fëanor's firstborn blinked.

"I know." The figure paused, seeming surprised, then slumped.

"I'm sorry." Maedhros' face twisted.

"For what?" But he faltered with a realization. "You thought that he—" he nodded "that he was—that Nalláma was—"

"What are you talking about, Gallinacciu?" the elf interrupted, "Don't make me guess."

"Your echo lives, _Glórin_ _Dúlin_." His bones clicked together as he straightened himself, posture righting itself.

"...what?" he managed to speak.

"He lives, _sonna-nya_." They could almost swear that there were unshed tears in his eyes, but they weren't paying attention to that. He told this elf 'my friend' _in Quenya_. How did they not know this person whom their brother had clearly known for a very long time? "Look." _Glórin Dúlin_ took a shuddering step forward—toward the cot—, but Celegorm moved in the way. He gave the firstborn a sideways look.

"Are we sure that we can trust him?" But Maedhros heard the real question behind the words: who the _Void_ is this person? His focus, however, was on his friend, whose fingers were twitching dangerously close to the knife at his side.

" _Glórin Dúlin_ ," his tone had a warning in it, "stand down." The elf snarled but lowered himself.

"That's right, _spy,"_ his voice was mocking, an emotion that was rarely associated with Celegorm's name, "listen to your _superiors_." That didn't sound like Fëanor's third son. Perhaps he was angry about Amrod. Perhaps he was upset about not understanding who this person was. Later, even he could not give a good reason as to why he said those foolish, slightly cruel, words. All he knew was that he regretted it.

For, that was one of the few times they ever saw the elf sometimes known was _Glórin Dúlin_ snap, and the only time it was directed to one of the bloodlines of Finwë.

"My _superiors_?" he hissed out, and Maedhros let go of his wrist. There was no holding him back now.

His hands ripped the hood off his face, which was barred in a snarl. Yet, it was the scars that littered it that took their breath away. They were random, without order, not the carefully planned marks on Amrod's. His eyes, glittering and golden, were almond shaped and large, set deeply into his skin. His hair was black as Morgoth's eyes, and, once it was freed, fell in a messy braid down his shoulder. "My name is Niquësúru, son of the one you named Sauron Gorthaur." His lips curled. "I was raised in the darkness of Angband while you _frolicked_ carefree in the hills of Valinor. My brother, the one who should have been there for me, lost his _soul_ to that _Void_. My sister, her hope, and my other, her will. You can tell me to stand down when your father hated you and made you know it." He held his hands up to the light, letting the flickers of the fire dance on the burns puckered across his skin. "He gave me these when I couldn't forge a blade perfectly the third time I ever saw an open flame. I was the mortal equivalent of _seven_ ," He hissed out, "The scar on my neck is from when I spat blood at him after he tore out one of my teeth. You can tell me to stand down when you know that the only reason you're still alive is that you're leverage and that you've been branded _useless_ as a person. The only reason I haven't been tortured to death is that holding me over Carnilindë's head makes her do what _our father_ wants. You can tell me to stand down when you've listened to your best friend scream and can do nothing but comfort him when it's over. You can tell me to stand down when you have seen Morgoth slaughter your nephews and nieces, simply for being _imperfect_. Calarunya, the eldest, who should have been a dancer. Nyarlalaith, who was born mute, but he had the most beautiful laugh I've ever heard." His eyes hardened. "I saw my brother cry over their broken bodies. Calarunya was lucky, nothing but a quick slit to the neck. But Nyarlalaith, Nyarlalaith died in _agony_ , mouth open in a silent scream. I could go on!" Niquësúru took a thundering step forward. "You can tell me to stand down when you know that the only reason you're brother hasn't faded is because he knows that your father would torture his sister to Mandos' Halls if he did! You can tell me to stand down when darkness is an old friend and scars from the hands of your father are your companions and your only memory of your mother is when she abandoned you! You can tell me to stand down when you have seen someone cry themselves to sleep over what her brother did for her or what someone did in the name of their brother! You can tell me to stand down when you were raised in something worse than the Void itself." He growled. "Now, look at me, _Prince_ Tyelkormo, and tell me that there is anyone else in this room other than Maedhros who can honestly tell me to stand down."

No one answered.

Tell me what you think, please! 


End file.
